


All Grown Up (?)

by lesbijkas



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Ableism, Abuse, Caning, Dehumanization, Gen, Isolation, Mental Illness, Recovery, Suicide, historical figures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 23:44:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7594954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbijkas/pseuds/lesbijkas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not once had he come back as a bird despite his quiet prayers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Grown Up (?)

            There was too much going on, too much noise and too much commotion. Too much movement. Too much light. Too much, too much, _too much-_

            He got separated from his aide, she had told him to wait and he had waited and waited and waited but the morning rush scrambled in and messed everything up. He knew he had to get to the conference center where the meeting would be held. He had memorized the address and what subway lines to take.

            She wasn’t with him and he couldn’t process anything. He had gotten off at the right stop, he knew he had. He knew, he had walked into the building and the people at the front desk had greeted him pleasantly. He had gone up the elevator to the correct floor, then nothing. No one was there and he was in the wrong place.

            But he couldn’t be in the wrong place because he had memorized it.

            He was early, only early, nothing else. He would be fine, he would be.

_(Twenty minutes, forty seven seconds.)_

            Alfred’s hands trembled as the clock on the wall ticked away. He could hear noise from the streets below; it was far away and fuzzy. His ears were ringing. He counted the ceiling tiles trying to keep his breathing under control.

            _(Eight minutes, fifteen seconds.)_

            No one was here and it was quiet, but he could feel it and hear it even without being around it. The city. He hated being in the city. He loved his cities, but he hated being in them for so long. They never shut up. They were bright, and loud, oh so loud that he couldn’t think straight. It was too much; all of it was too much.

_(Three seconds.)_

            It had to stop; he had to _make it stop._

            “America, are you alright?”

            Alfred’s eyes snapped open, they had been shut tightly, his face pressed against his knees with his legs pulled up to his chest. He didn’t remember sitting down, then again he didn’t remember a lot of things.

            “America,” his vision finally cleared to see Arthur standing over him, a frown on his face. Francis stood a bit behind him looking worried. More nations walked past the three of them paying them little to no mind.

            Noise began to fill the space, the hallway, growing only slightly distant as body after body went into the meeting room at the end of the hall.

            “Alfred,” a hand touched his shoulder. Francis, it was Francis.

            He flinched away body, beginning to shake. He closed his eyes again wanting to disappear. He didn’t want to be near them, he didn’t want to be here. He needed to get away. He needed to make the noise stop.

            “Hey, what’s going on?”

            A soft voice spoke, not quiet but soft. Alfred looked up to see Matthew walking down the hallway, leaving whoever he had been talking to behind. Arthur and Francis began to speak at the same time, a few other nations stopped to look as America got more and more panicked in his fetal position on the floor.

            “Be quiet will you,” Matthew quickly interrupted, dropping down to Alfred’s level. They both, thankfully, did. Germany was coming back out of the meeting room to see what was wrong; Canada quickly waved him as well as England and France off and away from America.

            “Alfred, can you please look at me?” It was a question. Matthew spoke gently, his soft tone back as cool hands held onto Alfred’s. The grip was lax; he could pull away if he wanted to. He was safe.

            Alfred did as his brother asked his breathing erratic. Matthew kept his body language open, calm. He smiled, ignoring anyone else who might have been there.

            “It’s okay, you’re alright. It’s Friday morning in the middle of May, there is a NATO meeting for only the nation representatives and it’s being held at your place in New York City,” he paused pulling Alfred’s arms towards himself as his breathing became regular again. “You haven’t done anything wrong and I’m not mad at you, okay? No one is mad at you; we are only concerned because we found you huddled on the floor. Can you tell me what happened?”

            America gulped before nodding. His thoughts were scattered, but Matthew didn’t hurry him along. He only sat there smiling like he always did when this happened.

            “I, this morning after leaving, was with her and we got separated,” he stopped, eyebrows furrowing, “But I memorized the address and the floor the meeting was on because I like numbers Matthew, numbers are so nice,” he finished off with a mumble, eyes darting towards the ground out of habit.

            “Did you get separated from Miss Audrey on your way here? Is that who she is?” Matthew asked slowly pulling Alfred towards him more.

            “No, Miss Audrey is busy because her son got into a car accident, she’s different. She has blonde hair and she has seven freckles on her hand,” Alfred explained curling in towards Matthew’s chest.

            “That’s nice Alfred, do you know her name?”

            Alfred shook his head, letting it duck down afterwards with what could have been a whimper. “No, I’m sorry.”

            “It’s okay, it’s okay Alfred. You didn’t do anything wrong. I am going to borrow your phone so I can call the President, alright? Then I am going to take you home,” Matthew said. Gentle, always gentle.

            “I, I don’t wanna go there. It’s too loud,” Alfred covered his ears letting his fingernails claw at the skin they touched. His glasses were askew. He was scared.

            “The city is too loud for you today?” Matthew questioned. He didn’t frown, he couldn’t frown. Not right now.

            Alfred nodded quickly, tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. He knew others were probably there, but he couldn’t take it. He didn’t want to be here.

            “Alright, how about we go downstairs so I can call who I need to call? We’ll stop by your place quickly and then we’ll go upstate. It’ll be quieter up there,” Matthew carefully began to stand up, taking Alfred with him.

            Alfred’s hands wrapped around his torso the second Matthew let go. There were crescent shaped indents near his temples where his nails had been digging into the skin. Matthew wrapped an arm around the other’s shoulders carefully leading him back towards the elevator.

            Matthew shook his head at anyone who tried to ask anything or follow the two brothers. Alfred said nothing as the elevator doors opened then closed. He didn’t say another word choosing to count the steps he took away from that hallway.

            _(Nine steps to the elevator, Matthew only took eight because his legs were longer.)_

            Numbers were nice, they were always right.

            Alfred liked numbers. He liked them a lot.

* * *

 

            It was hard to pinpoint when it started. The knowledge of mental health had gotten better as time went on, and that was putting it lightly.

            It could have been put off in the beginning as normal simply because he was a new nation, and the first few presidents were indulgent when it came to Alfred. They had helped him become America.

            He was still very much a child even then.

            It could have been the War of 1812, or the American Civil War. Or anything. It could have just been as it always was, getting worse as time progressed and no help was given. As people became aware of where Alfred fell short, where Alfred acted not as he should, attitudes went from amusement to irritation. It was kept under lock and key.

            Matthew had gotten a sob ridden call in the early 1970’s. Alfred had been incoherent, hysterical with pleads and begs for help and forgiveness. Matthew had never gone to the White House as fast as he had before that point, and thank God he did.

            He had more time to adjust to the world, more time to grow and mature as a nation should. Alfred hadn’t. He suffered for it and Matthew never knew until then.

            He made up for it, just as he knew he had to when he was taken to Alfred’s room, the nation crying in cuffs as he tried to scratch at his own head, at his own ears. The city was too loud for him, everything was too much. He repeated it over and over again, face blotched and red from tears.

            Matthew never wanted to see his brother like that again.

            Matthew never wanted anyone to find out like he did. He never wanted Alfred to be driven into such a state ever again, or punished for something that was beyond his control.

            _‘If he’s going to act that way, then he will be treated as such.’_

            Matthew hated how helpless he had felt, hated how he could only try to comfort his brother with words. He hadn’t been allowed to touch him. No affection.

           _‘Acting like a child means being punished like a child, I am sure you can understand, Mister Williams.’_

            He would never let that happen again, not if it was within his power. He’d keep Alfred safe; make sure he would be kept safe.

            _‘Alfred should know better than this, he is an adult for Christ’s sake.’_

            He would always be safe.

* * *

 

            Arthur K. [4:07 P.M.]: We are only wondering what that was all about earlier. You and America both disappeared without saying a word after he was found on the floor.

            Arthur K. [4:08 P.M.]: Not to mention we then got pardoning calls from both your Prime Minister and President Obama excusing you two from today’s meeting as well as this weekend’s.

            Arthur K. [4:08 P.M.]: It’s concerning Canada. No one will tell us anything.

            Matthew W. [4:32 P.M.]: no offense, but it isn’t any of your business Arthur. stay out of it. Alfred will be fine. that’s all you need to know.

            Arthur K. [4:34 P.M.]: God damn it Matthew, I am trying to be patient here but we both very well know this is not the first time this has happened! You have clearly dealt with this before judging by how you behaved the second you spotted Alfred on the floor.

            [ _2 missed calls from_ Arthur K.]

            [ _1 new voicemail_ ]

            Arthur K. [5:27 P.M.]: Matthew, please. Answer me back or answer my calls, I am honestly worried and Francis isn’t any better. He is on his third glass of wine and is pacing around in my hotel room.

            Arthur K. [5:32 P.M.]: We are both worried about Alfred. You two are our family and seeing him that way was anything but settling.

            Matthew W. [6:01 P.M.]: I know Arthur, I know. look, it really isn’t my business telling you anything. I’ll ask Alfred in the morning if he wants you two over here. if he says no, then you’ll have to respect that.

            Arthur K. [6:03 P.M.]: That’s fair. Thank you.

            Matthew W. [6:47 P.M.]: you’re welcome. tell Francis to stop pacing and go out to eat with you or something. worrying like that will give him gray hairs and I doubt that’s what he wants.

            Matthew W. [6:49 P.M.]: I gtg, bed and stuff, it’s movie Friday anyways.

            Arthur K. [6:51 P.M.]: Bed? It’s barely 7 o'clock! _(not received)_

* * *

 

            Alfred had always tried to do what he was told. He had to read off of the notes they gave him and he’d be fine, and he always did his best. They still didn’t think he was doing enough. There were the days and nights where his head was clear, where he knew everything he needed to know and was able to work practically nonstop until he burnt out or his mind reverted back to how it was most of them time, had been most of the time.

            They saw that he was able to act mature and responsible like any grown nation should, so why couldn’t he be that way all the time? What was wrong with him? Was the country affecting Alfred in ways that had never been experienced before?

            No. Nothing was different, nothing was new. If anything the country had only gotten better as time moved on.

            Alfred only seemed to get worse.

            Nothing had ever worked before. Bleeding him did nothing. Electroshock therapy did nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. No results, at least none in their favor. Alfred got worse, not speaking or articulating his own thoughts and actions for days. He wouldn’t move, wouldn’t make a sound.

            One of his Presidents hit him. As did the next one, and the one after that.

            _‘We don’t know what’s wrong with him; there probably isn’t anything wrong to begin with. He shouldn’t act this way. Don’t baby him.’_

            He always tried his best, he really did. He wasn’t always good with words. But he could build. And he could count. Numbers never lied or played tricks, numbers were what they were.

            He’d count the minutes he’d spend sitting outside the oval office, the ones inside, how long it took the president to start yelling, and how quickly it took for them to walk around the desk to strike him.

            He’d count the hits. Normally it was only one or two. President Jackson had been a bit more brutal, others not so much. Some never raised a hand to him, they didn’t understand but they were kind. They tried to help.

            He didn’t fight in either of the World Wars. He relayed orders, given to him by higher commanders, and he would sometimes help out with the wounded. He didn’t fight, he couldn’t fight.

            He had only fought once and that was when he truthfully was a child.

           He wasn’t a child anymore. He had made sure of that. He made himself his own man, his own nation.

            George Washington had been proud. He never raised a hand to Alfred. The man had a temper, but he never tried to raise his voice to Alfred. He read him stories sometimes. They’d go for walks around New York City, and at his home in Mount Vernon after he retired.

            Many of his first Presidents had been happy and proud of him; grateful that he could still act like a child after all he had seen.

            _(Valley Forge had been cold. So extremely cold.)_

            The fact many of his latter presidents, the ones who were often forgotten in history books or were not considered all that important, didn’t see him in the same light, was colder. A leader was supposed to like their representative, right? Or at least tolerate them?

            They weren’t supposed to hit them, mistreat them, abuse them.

_‘I am doing this for your benefit America. You need to learn this is unacceptable, this behavior is uncalled for and I will not stand for it.’_

            They had been so angry when he called Matthew. Canada. Matthew. Mattie. Matt.

            Matthew was a good brother. Alfred liked him a lot. His people liked Canada too which made everything so much easier. He hoped that they’d always be close. He didn’t want to end up like Feliciano and Romano, or Francis and Arthur. He always wanted to be Matthew’s friend because that’s what good brothers were.

_(He almost messed it up once. He had been so stupid. Then everything had burned. Burned away until he was gasping and crying wishing only for death that refused to come. It always refused to come no matter how much it burned. No how matter how high he fell from. No matter what bit into his skin. No matter how much blood he lost.)_

            Alfred had liked Eisenhower and Kennedy. They had both been nice. Eisenhower always tried to make sure Alfred was comfortable given the circumstances of the Cold War and Kennedy had let him believe in his dream. A man on the moon, Alfred had been so happy that day.

            _(Kennedy hadn’t been around to see it. He was dead decaying in the ground. Alfred sometimes wished he could join him. And Washington. And Lincoln. And Davie.)_

            Kennedy had kept lollipops in a jar in the oval office for when they went over policies. Eisenhower had kept bubblegum in his pockets for him and a jar of constantly changing marbles on his desk.

            Alfred could count them whenever he wanted; sort them by size and color if so chose to.

            When he had called Matthew a good decade later, the White House staff had been furious. They had cuffed him and dragged him back to his room, locking the door even as he sobbed and sobbed and sobbed away.

_(He was strong. He could break out of the cuffs, but that would be worse. Who knows what they’d do then, he didn’t want to know.)_

            He had enough, he wanted it to stop. The scolding and yelling and hitting and darkness and cold. The city was too loud and his country was scared and angry. He wanted it to stop, stop for just a few seconds.

            Matthew had been let in after the sun went down. He wasn’t able to touch Alfred but he talked. He talked and talked and talked, more than Alfred ever heard him before in his calm gentle voice.

            In that moment, everything went quiet. Things cleared.

            In that moment, everything changed.

* * *

 

            “Alfred!”

            America looked up from the place on his bed. A calculus book rested in front of him opened to somewhere in the middle a notebook on his legs. He could smell the food from downstairs. His pen fell from his grip.

            “Breakfast is ready!”

            Matthew was calling him downstairs.

            “Coming!”

            Alfred quickly moved off of the bed, feet sinking into carpeted flooring. It was half an inch tall so as long as he vacuumed often, every Tuesday of course, because that was cleaning day, it would stay soft and comfortable.

            His calculus book was put on top of his dresser, in the back right corner where it always went, with his notebook and calculator on top. The pen went back in the pen holder alongside the twelve other pens. Thirteen was sometimes considered an unlucky number, but he liked the number thirteen.

            Thirteen stars, thirteen stripes. Thirteen, the sixth prime number and the seventh odd number. A baker’s dozen.

_(Eight steps from the dresser to the hallway, fourteen steps from his doorway to the stairs, eighteen stairs to go down to the first floor, five steps in the foyer, seven steps in the dining room, three steps in the kitchen. Matthew.)_

            “Good morning,” Matthew said, flipping over another pancake. Matthew didn’t make pancakes too often lately, at least not every time he visited Alfred and stayed overnight.

            “Morning,” Alfred replied, looking over the kitchen island. It separated him from Matthew. It had strawberries and cream in two separate bowls. Twenty stems were in the sink not yet washed into the garbage disposal.

            Ten for him, ten for Matthew.

            “Did you sleep well?” Matthew asked, placing a pancake on a plate next to him. Alfred stayed silent as he poured the next one.

            “Yes. I was tired and I slept good,” he paused. “Well. I slept well.”

            Matthew smiled. Relief filled Alfred’s heart. It’s okay, you did nothing wrong, Matthew doesn’t judge. It’s okay to make a mistake. Everyone makes them sometimes.

            _(Sometimes it was hard to look past the fact he truthfully wasn’t a disappointment. He wasn’t an idiot. He wasn’t. Matthew told him he was amazing and smart all the time. So did his current president and first lady and staff members.)_

_(Obama. He kept sea glass in a bowl. There were fifty-seven clear pieces, twenty-three white, eighty-two green, eleven blue, and four purple. Sometimes he would take one or two out before Alfred could count them to see if he noticed. He always did.)_

_(Obama always smiled.)_

            “That’s great. I did too,” he flipped the pancake. “The movie was good; then again you can’t really go wrong with Disney.”

            “Unless you wear a white shirt on Splash Mountain.”

            Silence. The sizzling of the cooking pan was barely there. Matthew snorted, trying not to laugh. He had waited six seconds.

            “Okay, you got me there, but I meant movie wise.”

            Alfred laughed, “You only said Disney, not Disney movie. Nice try Mattie.”

            The pancakes were done, Matthew turned off the stove putting the now empty pan into the sink covering up the strawberry stems with it. He had made eight pancakes, four for both brothers, with only ten strawberries the ratio of pancake to strawberry would be unequal unless-

            “Don’t worry; I split the strawberries in half.”

            -he cut them.

            Alfred felt his shoulders relax. Matthew pulled out a stool for him putting his four pancakes on his own plate. The strawberries were set out in the middle of the table and so was the cold cream. He watched as Matthew got out chocolate syrup alongside milk.

            Two glasses were poured. The syrup was set closer to Alfred.

            Alfred was already taking out his pills from the Saturday compartment.

            They ate quietly, Alfred counting out the strawberry slices, five for each pancake. He swallowed his pills after eating two pancakes, downing half a glass of milk with them. Matthew only smiled in the slight way of his.

            He wanted to talk about something; his brows were slightly dipped down.

            _(He wasn’t angry; he never got angry at Alfred. He got mad at those around them and at what happened **to** Alfred, but never **at** Alfred. No matter what happened. Because everyone made mistakes and Matthew was patient. Matthew was kind. Matthew was safe.)_

            Alfred finished eating. Matthew didn’t finish his last pancake, not completely. He set his fork down. Alfred gripped the edge of the counter.

            “Alfred, I want to ask you something. You are not in trouble and there is nothing wrong, I only want to talk to you about something and ask you about it afterwards, okay?” Matthew was looking at him. There was no hostility in his voice or in his eyes.

            “Yeah, that’s okay Mattie.”

            “Alright,” Canada pushed his plate aside. “Arthur and Francis are very worried about you. They didn’t understand what was going on yesterday and they want to come over here and see that you are doing alright today.”

            He went quiet allowing the words to settle. America nodded kicking his legs. “Okay…”

            “Arthur was asking me last night if he and Francis could come over but I told him it was up to you,” Matthew let out a deep breath. “If they came over, we would have to tell them. I already asked President Obama, and he said it would be okay as long as you said yes.”

            Alfred frowned, “So it’s my choice?”

            Matthew nodded.

            Alfred didn’t make his own decisions too often. It wasn’t that he couldn’t, he simply didn’t want to. He didn’t know what he was capable of. Others seemed to understand him more than he did sometimes. Most times.

            He didn’t drink alcohol and he never drove in more populated and dense areas. He had an aide to help him when he was in cities. His speed dial was the President’s private number, the First Lady’s number, Matthew’s number, and his aide’s number. He had a schedule planned out for him so he remembered to eat and remembered to do what work they gave him and remembered to bathe and remembered to go to bed.

_(Tuesday was always cleaning day. The bathrooms, then the kitchen, then the extra rooms, then his room. He’d also mow the lawn that day if he needed to. Raking leaves in the fall and plowing the driveway in the winter occurred when they needed to be done. He was in bed by eight o’clock Sunday night through Thursday night; he sometimes stayed up doing math problems or playing videogames or watching movies on Fridays and Saturdays.)_

_(His medications were always in their compartment in the weekly case he had. It was always refilled on Monday when his aide came over to get him for the day. He took the pills inside every day with breakfast, the most important meal of the day!)_

            This was a huge decision though. One that could backfire. One that could change a lot of things. If they understood, if his pseudo family understood, then maybe it would be easier. It would mean two more people would be on his speed dial and two more people who let him count. Who would know he wasn’t stupid. Who would be there if he needed them.

            If they didn’t understand, Matthew was there. Matthew was safe.

            He wanted them to be safe too.

            “Yeah, Arthur and Francis can come over,” he finally answered. “Make sure they put their shoes in a cubby by the door not on a mat. They’ll probably stay a few days.”

            _(If they understand.)_

            “As long as you want this. I will give Arthur a call so he knows to come over after the meeting.”

_(Alfred hopes they will.)_

* * *

 

            [ _1 new voicemail_ ]

            Matthew W. [1:04 P.M.]: shit, sorry, I probably missed the lunch break. you and Francis can come over after the meeting however. clear it with your bosses and stay here a few days if you can. you might want to.

            Matthew W. [1:17 P.M.]: almost forgot, put your shoes in the holder Alfred has in the front foyer, please don’t forget!

* * *

 

            Alfred sat on a hill in the District of Columbia. Washington D.C. He liked it there. The White House was a ways behind him now. He had taken seven thousand, four hundred and fifty nine steps to get here. It was November. He had forgotten a light jacket but that was okay. He wasn’t too cold.

            It was about three hours until sundown. He had time to get back if he needed to.

            It was a good day today. Things were going pretty well with his nation, all things considered.

            It had been five years and seven days since Congress had met for the first time at the White House. A year, three months, and thirteen days since Alexander Hamilton was shot by Aaron Burr in a duel in New Jersey.

_(Alexander died three years, seven months, and seventeen days after his son Philip. He died the same way, near the same place. Alfred only wishes he could have saved one of them.)_

            Alfred often wondered if the sting of death would ever leave him. He didn’t know if it was different because he, they, some of them, had helped him come to be. Maybe he’d always feel this way.

            Is that why Britain never got attached to any of his humans? Why even though he spoke of certain ones with fondness, it was never the same as he spoke about Alfred or Matthew or any of the other colonies he had raised?

            _(Well, not Alfred anymore. At a point in time that was now past he had.)_

_(Maybe he would again in the future.)_

            Maybe Alfred shouldn’t be as close with them anymore, but it was hard. He knew these people; he knew George Washington and John Adams and Thomas Jefferson and Burr and Hamilton and so many others. They fought for him. Some died for him.

            Many nameless died for him and he wishes, in some way, they hadn’t. He knew it was inevitable. If he wanted to be free, he was going to have to fight for it. Fighting led to blood drawn, and war lead to death.

_(Gilbert had taught him to be brave in the face of death. In the end it was all an act, he didn’t fight on the front lines much anyways. Washington had kept him close instead. He only faced Arthur, Britain, head on. And only once. No one died that day. He didn’t die that day.)_

            Perhaps it would be easier if he hadn’t been born a nation. Had he only been a human child with a human life with human views and human expectations. Maybe he would have been one of the nameless soldiers to die, but at least then he wouldn’t feel guilty.

            _(Would the guilt stay with him forever?)_

            Alfred watched as a group of birds flew past him in a loud flurry. They disappeared into the sky as they got further and further away higher and higher off of the ground. He reached for them, if only for a moment wanting to go with them, far away from this place. From politics and death and humans and nations.

            “America!”

            Alfred turned to look down towards the base of the hill he was on to see President Jefferson himself with a coat in his arms.

            “Hello Mister President! Did you have a nice walk over?” he asked as the man got closer.

            “I suppose, it is getting a bit cold out here now that the sun is setting Alfred. How about we go back home for now?” the man handed Alfred the coat, his coat on closer inspection, before offering a hand to the young looking nation.

            “Can I ask you another question Mister Jefferson?”

            Alfred stood up without his help grasping the hand all the same once he was fully standing up. The coat remained on his arm, not going on quite yet.

            “Of course, go right ahead.”

            “Do you ever wish you were not you?”

            The man looked puzzled once the question registered. “I cannot say that I do, what brought this on?”

            Alfred shrugged looking towards the sky again, “Dunno, I was thinking about some stuff. I cannot help but wonder what it would have been like if I was a human, only Alfred Jones. Not America,” he looked up at Jefferson. “I wish if I was reborn it could be as a bird instead though. Then I could fly away from all of my problems.”

            Jefferson said nothing. He was worried, Alfred could tell. He said too much.

            The other didn’t understand.

            “Come along now Alfred, I think the cold is getting to you.”

            Alfred only nodded, a bright smile making its way to his face, “You’re probably right. I won’t forget my coat next time, I promise!”

            Jefferson didn’t say anything about how he had promised the same thing three days prior. He watched as Alfred put his coat on before skipping ahead back down the hillside laughter bubbling from his lips.

            Jefferson followed behind, shaking his head fondly. “We can start a fire once we get back, and I also want to go over some of our policies we glossed over yesterday.”

            Alfred hummed in agreement, falling in step next to the other. They talked quietly between themselves as they made their trek back to the White House. A fire sounded nice. Alfred’s hands had gotten cold.

_(It would be eight years and nine months until the British set fire to everything. Then, Alfred was anything but cold. He was burning, burning close to death. He didn’t die, of course, nations didn’t die.)_

_(Alfred sometimes wished he had.)_

* * *

 

            Arthur and Francis didn’t speak as they drove a rental car closer to Alfred’s upstate New York home. It was given to him as a gift rather recently compared to other homes that he had around his country. High ceilings, a bright color scheme, and a large backyard had made it the location of many parties over the few years Alfred had it.

            As they turned into the neighborhood Arthur shifted in his seat finally looking uneasy. Francis didn’t take his eyes off of the road, choosing to wait for Arthur to speak first. The nation contemplated what to start with.

            “What are we going to see when we get there?” he finally blurted out, hands clenching into fists on his knees.

            France said nothing, mulling the sentence over for a few moments. “I do not know,” he was quiet. “There is something that we, all of us, were clearly missing about Alfred. I am sure he is alright if that is what you are truthfully asking. Mathieu is with him and he clearly was able to help Alfred fairly quickly.”

            “But when you say alright, do you mean completely sound of mind? He,” a sharp intake of breath interrupted the sentence. Arthur’s words wavered if only for a moment, “He was terrified of us France. He was utterly terrified and there was nothing I, we, could do.”

            “And now, we will be able to help. We are going to know what is wrong and we will be able to help him,” France reached over and gave England’s hand a small squeeze. His hands finally relaxed as the house came into view.

            “Thank you.”

            Francis hummed in response as the car pulled into the driveway. Matthew’s car was in the garage and Alfred’s elusive car was once again not present. Arthur grabbed both of their suitcases as Francis walked back down the driveway to get the mail out of the mailbox. There was none.

            Somewhere down the road children could be heard laughing.

            They stopped talking long before they rang the doorbell, the noise echoing distantly within the home. Footsteps could be heard alongside a thunk against the door is if someone accidentally ran into it.

            The door flew open with Alfred standing on the other side still in his pajamas. He held a calculator and pen in one hand the other still on the door handle.

            “Alfred, it is good to see you are feeling so lively today-”

            “Mattie!” the younger man interrupted yelling towards the direction of the generally unused dining room, “Arthur and Francis are here!”

            There was quiet for a moment before a creak of an old wooden chair was heard, “Let them in!”

            Alfred quickly moved back inside practically running back into the living room, diving onto the carpeted flooring to lie facing a thick textbook and warn notebook filled with math problems. Francis, uncharacteristically, shuffled in a few moments too late Arthur walking in behind him.

            The door closed with a resounding click.

            Both men moved to take off their shoes, putting them in a rather childish shoe rack that was against the wall. Their suitcases were pushed towards the stairs where they could be taken up later. Canada walked out of the dining room, rubbing at his eyes underneath his glasses, shooting a smile at the two once he saw them.

            “Hey guys, sorry about not helping you with your luggage. I am trying to get my paperwork done with before dinner,” he said, quickly giving Francis a hug, followed by Arthur.

            “It’s alright, do not beat yourself up about something so trivial, Matthew.” England patted his shoulder as France looked into the living room.

            Alfred was lying down on his stomach swinging his legs back and forth in the air as he did math problems. He seemed to do them with ease, humming a small tune under his breath as he went. Arthur’s eyes softened at the sight.

            Matthew stiffened.

            “Alfred,” he moved towards the other grabbing one of his ankles. Alfred startled out of focus looking behind at his brother.

            “Yeah?”

            “Does your toe hurt?”

            France’s eyes widened as he saw the now bloody sock. Arthur made a move forwards but stopped as Francis grabbed the sleeve of his shirt.

            “A bit,” Alfred mumbled out.

            “Why didn’t you tell me you got hurt?” Matthew asked getting the other to sit up properly.

            “I didn’t think it was important,” Alfred paused, turning off his calculator. “I’ve had worse and I wanted to finish my page.”

            Matthew seemed to freeze, if only for a fraction of a second. “It is important, you shouldn’t be getting hurt. And if you do get hurt you need to tell me, okay?”

            Alfred nodded looking down at the ground in shame.

            “You aren’t in trouble; I care about you and want to make sure you stay safe. I know you heal quickly, and that’s a good thing, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t bandage it up until then. So let’s do that quickly, and then we can all sit down and talk.”

            Alfred got up quickly, following Matthew towards the bathroom further down the downstairs hallway. Running water could be heard as a cabinet was opened then closed.

            Arthur walked into the living room looking stricken. Francis didn’t look much better. He stood still in the foyer, frozen. England looked over to the book Alfred had been flipping through. Calculus problems greeted him, all more complex than he had ever seen before.

            The notebook next to it was worn down by pen strokes and callused hands. Math problems and diagrams were written out in neat orderly rows. Page after page of solved problems and nothing else.

            Arthur stopped flipping as a hand grabbed the notebook right out of his own. Alfred stood close, too close for comfort in most situations, a look of anger on his features.

            “You didn’t ask to look at it,” it rushed out the words all jumbled together. “You need to ask; otherwise you don’t touch people’s things.”

            He gripped the notebook to his chest, his knuckles white.

            His socks were off and two of his toes had band aids on them. They were blue standing out against the white carpeting. Matthew walked in a few seconds later, Francis finally moved in after him towards the couch.

            “Alfred, how about you put that stuff upstairs for now,” Matthew only half asked, watching as Alfred picked up the textbook and calculator.

            “He needs to apologize first.”

            Matthew looked over to Arthur with the tilt of his head.

            “Ah, yes. I am sorry for touching your notebook without permission. It won’t happen again,” he smiled at Alfred once he was finished. The nation was satisfied with that, moving out of the living room towards the stairs.

            _(Six steps through the living room, four in the foyer, eighteen steps up the stairs, fourteen steps to his bedroom doorway, and eight steps to his dresser from the hallway. Backtrack, same amount of steps, same amount of time.)_

            Alfred paused out of sight hearing an angered voice from within the living room.

            “-so I will ask again, what was that about Canada?”

            “I am not saying anything without him being here-”

            “Is he even here mentally in the first place?”

            “Don’t you _dare_ start with a shit argument like that,” it was full of venom. Clearly it took England back for a second. He fell silent. “Alfred is fine; I will explain what I can when he is in the goddamn room so we are not talking behind his back. Do you understand me?”

            Alfred walked in before they could continue fighting.

            “Ten.”

            Both France and England were confused.

            “Oh, that’s good. I’m sorry if you heard any of that,” Matthew apologized motioning for Arthur to sit down.

            “It’s okay,” Alfred quickly replied. He shuffled nervously in place before walking over to a plush leather arm chair, snuggling into the material once he sat down. He folded his legs up underneath himself as Matthew sat down on another chair to his left.

            Silence reigned over the space, no one making a move to break it as the minutes ticked by. Alfred fidgeted but always froze up when his chair made noise. Matthew had leaned forwards with his elbows on his knees, his hands covering his chin and jaw. His brows had dipped down in a look of contemplation about how to talk about the current situation.

            _(… three hundred seven, three hundred eight, three hundred nine…)_

            “Before we start, I need to know that no matter what happens you will not tell anyone about this. You won’t tell your bosses, you won’t tell other nations, you won’t tell any humans; no one. It will be between all four of us and Alfred’s government if it is truthfully a serious emergency,” Matthew looked at the two older nations with a cold frown. “If I find out at any time that you shared the information I am about to tell you, whether you decide to help and support this or not, I will not hesitate to do what I need to do to ensure Alfred stays safe and away from you. Whether that means you cannot visit him or we have to cut ties with your nation. I do hope it never becomes serious enough to bring it to an international level, however.”

            Both Europeans looked shocked at the strong statement. Canada was not joking around at all with this matter. Alfred smiled in a gentle sort of way a look of gratitude crossing his face.

            “Do I make myself clear?” Matthew finally asked.

            “ _Oui,_ you do,” France answered first, leg starting to bounce up and down.

            “Yes, you have made your point fairly clear,” England followed up. Alfred’s smile widened.

            “Good,” he turned to Alfred kindness returning to his tone and facial expression, “Would you like to tell them or do you want me to?”

            “You should,” America fiddled with his thumbs. “You explain it better than I do.”

            “That’s just because you always tell me to explain it. I am sure if you did it once or twice you’d get it down pat.”

            Alfred shook his head, “Can’t remember the right words.” He blinked looking over at Matthew, “Sorry.”

            “Nothing to be sorry about,” Canada calmly said before turning back to Francis and Arthur. “Alfred has what his government has decided to call developmental expression blockage, for lack of better terms. For a while, especially in the beginning when different mental illnesses were starting to come to light and actually have names, we all believed it to be a combination of autism, ADHD, and PTSD. The fact of the matter is that none of the medications or methods truthfully worked all too well on Alfred. His performance and mental state did not improve or even got worse due to side effects from such medications.”

            Matthew paused making sure the others were taking the information in.

            Alfred let out a hum, moving around so his legs went up and over the back of his chair with his head hanging down by the carpet.

            “He is better some days than others, and every now and again, like you saw the other day, things get to be overwhelming for him. Alfred essentially ends up having a sensory overload because he can’t process and understand that much information properly at once. It happens a lot in cities and in large social situations when he doesn’t have anyone there to ground him. His mental age and actions often change from day to day alongside his vocabulary, maturity, and overall ability to express himself properly.”

            Francis was staring off into space processing everything silently, Arthur doing something similar with his eyes glossed over.

            “There have been a few other cases like his involving humans and so far there have been some, err, advancements in what can be done in order to make living comfortable as possible. It’s a bit different for Alfred due to what has happened, but we are trying our best to make it so he can keep doing what he wants to do alongside working for his nation,” Matthew finally finished with a soft breath.

            Alfred waited and listened to the other two for their reactions. Their breathing didn’t falter and their expressions didn’t change.

_(This was exactly like when a new president entered the White House. The nervousness, the uneasiness, and the downright fear- it was all present. Would they accept him? Reject him? He never knew, not until he, well Matthew, said something.)_

_(Rejection was what he feared. Rejection and the pain. The cold. The dark.)_

_(He didn’t mean to be bad, he wanted to be good. Why did they have to hurt him?)_

            Alfred stilled as long fingers cradled the back of his head, lifting him into a proper sitting position. Arms wrapped around him in a hug, a hand rubbed against his back while another carded through his hair at the base of his neck.

            He wrapped his arms around Francis’ torso in order to reciprocate the hug.

            “I, I never knew. Oh god, Alfred,” lips were pressed against Alfred’s temple. Apologies in French soon followed. They were quiet, almost whispered into his hair.

            “It’s okay Francis.”

            Arthur stood up after Alfred spoke. Francis moved to the side, a hand over his mouth as he tried not to cry. The Brit took Alfred’s face into his hands thumbs gently running over his cheeks.

            “Thank you for telling us,” he said a sad smile overtaking confusion. “We will do what we can to help.”

_(They understood; they wanted to help. They wanted to be there for him.)_

            Alfred’s smile broke as he began to cry, surging forward to grab England into a hug. He sobbed into the other’s shirt front, clinging desperately as if he were to let go, Arthur would disappear. They wanted to help; they still loved him and saw him as family.

            “Thank you,” he choked out. He repeated it over and over again like a prayer. He grew quiet after a few moments. Hands were on his back, his shoulders. Arthur was hugging him back. Francis had an arm wrapped around his back. Matthew squeezed his shoulder.

            His crying began anew.

_(He always had to remind himself that he was important. He was loved. He was perfect the way that he was. He wasn’t stupid, or replaceable. His people needed him. His family needed him.)_

_(He needed them too.)_

* * *

 

            Matthew would never forget the day he asked Alfred about the cane that was removed from the oval office once Jimmy Carter became president. The personification had been living with Canada since Matthew had been called back during Nixon’s presidency, before the Watergate scandal. Only when his vice president lost his reelection, and Carter became president, did Alfred go home.

            The cane. Alfred had taken one look at it before breaking down. He had remained unresponsive for hours until it was gone, until he was out of the White House, out of Washington D.C. He had begged Matthew not to hurt him, that he would do better, that he was sorry.

            That’s when Canada realized the true damage that had been done.

            How often had Alfred been hurt? How long had it been going on? How was the American government able to keep it a secret? How could they do this to their personification?

            How? How, how, _how?_

            It took years, more than two decades, for him to learn what he pieced together to be the whole story. Alfred never told him everything at once. Snippets here and there through every day conversation slowly became an entire story.

            In the beginning, things were okay. His first few presidents knew him personally and so they were very indulgent with how he behaved. They were happy he was still able to act childishly. He had seen so much, been through so much, it was a relief to see him happy and laughing.

            He was still relatively young. As both a nation and a person. He was only sixteen physically when the Civil War was fought.

            It didn’t matter.

            He never said exactly when it began, or with whom, but by the time Andrew Jackson had been in office, it had to have been going on for a minimum of a decade. Andrew Jackson had been one of the worst. Alfred would have bruises for days.

            Nations didn’t get hurt like that, not by their people. Not by humans.

            He was told it was for the better, that it would help him, that nothing else would and if he wanted to be a good nation- a strong one- he had to take it.

            So he did. Some presidents didn’t. He always spoke of them with fondness. They let him count, they helped him the best they could, even as humans with minimal to nonexistent knowledge on mental health.

            Others did. It was passed on like a tradition. For a while it was hands, maybe a belt or two. A cane, the cane, came into play eventually. It stayed at the White House, as a reminder. A painful reminder Alfred didn’t like.

            It hurt. It would hurt so much, but he couldn’t do anything. It was so he would behave, so he would be good. He wanted to be good and he wanted to be what everyone expected. He was supposed to be strong and courageous, a bright young man who was beautiful and equally as intelligent.

            But, he wasn’t that. He was stupid. So very, very stupid. He would forget the simplest of things. He would stumble over himself and his words. He was a fully grown nation, more so than even an adult. He should be able to control himself, be able to act properly.

            The World Wars hit hard. The deaths of so many people, the anger and despair of others, all combined with being thrusted onto the world’s stage and given the theoretical microphone made Alfred worse.

            The happy sunny disposition he showed to others was the only way he could hide everything.

            Once World War Two had concluded-

_(With him killing so many innocents. He had brought death. He was death. He could kill but he couldn’t be killed. The guilt never left. It was eating him alive. He wanted it to stop. He deserved to die.)_

            -the tensions between the USSR and the United States got worse. Without a common goal, their clashing ideals and European occupation lead to the Cold War. Alfred was pushed beyond what he was capable of. More than he ever had been before.

            He had to be better than the USSR, than Ivan. He had to be stronger, smarter, and friendlier than the other. He broke so many doors, so many planes, and so many things that could and couldn’t be replaced. He memorized facts he would forget the next day. He would play the world’s friend, even if they didn’t want him

            Or if they did _want_ him.

_(He died seventeen times in Korea. They refused to pull him out of combat even though he had never fought before. They did the same thing with many conflicts. They, his government, often didn’t care about his safety. His president may have cared sometimes, but if he wasn’t in the White House he was under the command of others.)_

_(He died more than forty times in Vietnam. He had been sent home once they figured out he had committed many deaths on purpose. His own kind of desertion, they had called it. Nixon had been furious.)_

_(That’s when he finally called Matthew.)_

            Some nations did want him. In more than a friendly kind of way. They personally did, or their governments did. It didn’t really matter. To strengthen relationships was important. Many times his president had pressed this. He didn’t want to, he wasn’t ready. He never would be.

            But if he wanted to be good he had to say yes.

_(South Korea had been the first. Then Japan. Then West Germany. Then England, Britain at the time. It had stopped after him, after Arthur. They had a special relationship and his government didn’t want to jeopardize that.)_

_(They didn’t care he had felt sick after each and every time, that he showered for hours, vomiting and dry heaving into a toilet for longer.)_

            So he said yes. He said yes over and over again, a smile on his face each and every time. If he could do this, his people would be proud. If he could do this, maybe he would be more of what he was supposed to be.

_(They had sex nineteen times before it stopped. Arthur never suspected anything. Alfred didn’t know if that hurt him more or if the actual act did.)_

            Matthew helped him after that. They established rules and routines, coping methods and safety. Since Carter, Matthew had been present every time a new president was introduced to Alfred. Alfred didn’t stay at the White House longer than necessary unless it was national or international emergency. He never stayed in his cities for more than two nights at a time.

            Matthew was responsible for all of it. He helped Alfred whenever he could. Medications were tried as time went on. Alfred was given an aide for when Matthew needed to be away.

            The USSR fell and the Cold War ended.

            Alfred tried to kill himself in 1997.

            He had an obsession with death, with escape. Medications could only do so much. Their side effects could be even worse than the results, which were often none.

            Alfred hung himself in one of his homes which he went to off the book. It took two months to track him down. They had found him hanging from a ceiling beam. He had been dying over and over again since he allowed himself to drop.

            When he woke up in the hospital a half an hour later, he had looked over to Matthew and the first lady with a smile.

_‘One thousand three hundred eighty seven times.’_

            He hadn’t tried since, seemingly satisfied for the time being. Matthew for years afterwards asked if he had the urge. The want. The need. They could be honest with each other because Matthew never got angry at Alfred. He wanted to help.

            Alfred always said no.

_(Curiosity killed the cat, satisfaction brought it back.)_

Matthew learned, as did Alfred, what was good and what was bad. What helped Alfred and what didn’t. Matthew could read Alfred easily. Alfred could read Matthew easily. Time progressed.

            Nothing like the cane was ever used again.

            The damage had been done. After years of mistreatment by the people he was supposed to be able to trust, Alfred didn’t have a chance of getting out of it unharmed. None of the scars had stayed, no; physically he was fine. Mentally was a whole other story.

_(Over the course of his nationhood, Alfred could recall being hit over five hundred times. He had been spanked more than one hundred, hit with a belt a bit less than fifty, and caned three hundred fourteen times. The rest varied. He had been locked in rooms for days on end for the equivalent of five and a half months. Four of those months were spent in the dark. Two of them in the winter, in the bitter cold.)_

_(He had killed himself more than two thousand times. Not once had he come back as a bird despite his quiet prayers.)_

            He was getting better. He was able to figure out a basis for what age he was at given point in time. He had medications for his anxiety and therapists he could see if he needed to talk. Matthew was on speed dial, his president and first lady were on speed dial. He had fidget toys, bracelets and necklaces that helped him remain focused.

            He had numbers. He always had numbers.

            They were making progress, Alfred was making progress. It wasn’t always forward progress, but he kept going none the less. In his moments of clarity, he would thank Matthew. From the bottom of his heart. Matthew always knew it but Alfred wanted to make sure he knew how grateful he was.

            Without Matthew, he would have been a bird by now.

_(Alfred didn’t know if that was good or bad any more.)_

* * *

 

             Canada moved around the kitchen easily as the sun dipped lower in the sky. France had helped him with prep and was now helping him cook the vegetables. Alfred asked if they could have chicken for dinner.

            He and England were in the dining room after setting the table. Alfred had asked Arthur if he could help him with some of his work. He wouldn’t find the right words. Arthur was the one to ask about words.

            The two were taking everything pretty well. On the surface, they were smiles and complete understanding. They had asked a few questions, mostly about Alfred, in order to make sure they didn’t do something wrong or assume the wrong thought.

            Matthew could tell there was more to it, and so could Alfred. Neither said anything. If Arthur and Francis were waiting, they were waiting so they could speak to Matthew alone. They didn’t want to hurt Alfred.

            So America remained silent on the matter, instead pouring over work with Arthur and speaking with Francis if the conversation called for it.

            _(This is what he had been missing, a family. Acceptance. Kindness.)_

            Dinner itself was a happy affair. Alfred was allowed to eat how he wanted to. The food was delicious. The only complaint came from Francis because there was no wine to accompany the dish. The four of them had ice cream in the living room while watching another Disney movie.  America chose Big Hero 6, falling asleep on Arthur’s shoulder half an hour before the ending.

            Matthew carried him up to his room, tucking him into his bed before turning on a night light. He shut the door silently as possible before making his way downstairs.

            It was time to have a talk.

            He found both on the couch in their pajamas. It was almost as though they hadn’t moved, but the bowls were now in the sink in the kitchen and Francis had put his hair up into a loose bun. Arthur was tense, more so than Francis who only looked concerned. His shoulders were stiff, Arthur’s were rigid.

            Matthew sat down so he could face them. Francis opened his mouth but stopped when Arthur let out a strangled noise. He was crying.

            “Answer me truthfully,” he began knuckles going white from how tightly they were clenched. “In the fifties and sixties when Alfred and I slept together, was he consenting? Was he goaded into it by his government as well as my own or was he on board- did he only comply because they made him?”

            His voice got quieter as we went, eyes closing tightly.

            _“Did I rape him Matthew?”_

            Canada didn’t say anything right away. England had dropped out of nation speak, English pouring from his lips. Francis had wrapped an arm around Arthur’s shoulders as the man sobbed. He kept himself quiet. He didn’t want to wake Alfred upstairs.

            “I will be honest; I don’t know everything about it. Alfred doesn’t like to talk about much involving things like that. I know more about presidents and times he liked than those he didn’t, and what I do know I have had to piece together,” Matthew said. He paused again trying to put it in a way that Arthur wouldn’t be any more upset over. “From what I have been told and from what his government has found in file, at the time when Alfred finally began to sleep with other nations in order to help with relations, he was not in favor if it. At all. He didn’t want to do it, but his president, and I quote, ‘convinced him it was for the better of the nation and the world.’ At the time because of the competition between himself and Ivan there were a lot of things he did that he didn’t want to do.”

            _(None of them heard him walk down the stairs.)_

           Arthur looked sick, tears streaming down his face accompanied by choked back sobs.

            “I will say this; while Alfred didn’t like doing that or anything like it, he was happier it was with you. You were careful and you were nice. You didn’t hurt him any more than he already was. Alfred knows you thought it was all consensual and does not spend much time dwelling on it. Too much has happened in the past for him to keep holding onto memories like that.”

            “So he forgives me after, after everything? After putting him through that? I didn’t even know what was going on- _I was feeding into his government and helping them torture him-”_

            He couldn’t speak any more. Arthur curled in on himself even as Francis tried to pull him into a hug. The room fell silent once again as Arthur continued to cry silently. France shifted looking up at Matthew with teary eyes.

            “Nothing like that has happened since, has it?” he asked.

            “No, once he and Arthur stopped that was the end of it. After he was sent home from Vietnam and Nixon forgot to take out his land line after he locked him up-” but Matthew stopped, realizing his slip up.

            “Locked him up?”

            Arthur looked up his eyes rimmed red.

            “Yes. Locked him up, his presidents,” a deep breath, “Not all of them were kind. The awareness and acceptance of mental health is still fairly new.”

            “Why did they lock him up after getting back from Vietnam? Is it because they didn’t win the war?” France asked as Arthur wiped a hand over his face.

            “No, he was sent home before it ended. He, it- shit, Vietnam was his second time in combat. The Korean War was the first. He never truthfully fought in any of the other wars. That’s why his people kept his division away from ours and why if he was with us he was given a position of command. They didn’t want him fighting because he couldn’t,” anger showed on Matthew’s face. “He couldn’t stand the thought of killing someone else even during times of war. He never broke the line of command but he would die often, so often they finally paid attention to it and realized he was dying on purpose, even by his own hand so he could stop.”

            Francis’ face paled.

            “They sent him back because they considered it desertion. I’ve read the file about it, it wasn’t pretty. Nixon was furious at Alfred. They punished him and he was locked up in his old room in the White House for god knows how long until he managed to call me after they beat him. They handcuffed him and hit him over and over again. I was called by Alfred and when I arrived they wouldn’t take me to see him for hours until I threatened to tell the U.N. and even then I could only talk to him in the dark,” Matthew stopped speaking biting down on his thumb.

The other two didn’t know how to respond. Matthew kept going.

“Alfred was beaten by many of his presidents and other personnel who knew about him since a little bit before the time of Andrew Jackson’s presidency. Many of them weren’t necessarily bad people but, they did not know what else to do. They would turn to what had been used in the past instead of trying to understand anything. Alfred only wanted to be what they wanted him to be, a smart strong country. If that meant taking what they gave him, he took it, no matter what it was.”

            “What else did they do?” Francis finally asked. His words dripped with fury. Arthur didn’t look much better. His cheeks were blotched red, anger filling his eyes.

            “They would lock him up a lot as well as flat out beat him for ‘misbehaving.’ They’d ignore him until he would have breakdowns resulting in more punishment,” the words got quieter and quieter. “They would make sure he never got bruises on his face, that way it wouldn’t draw attention. It happened during World War One right under our noses.”

            Arthur stood up after that, practically plowing Francis over as he left the room towards the hallway. A few seconds later the bathroom door closed followed by muffled noises and retching. Francis shuddered leaning forwards with his elbows on his knees.

            “Why,” he finally whispered out just as Canada was about to get up and check on England. “Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

            “Because we didn’t think it was safe,” but the words didn’t come from Matthew. The two remaining in the living room turned to look as Alfred walked in hugging his pillow to his chest.

            “Alfred-”

            “No, it’s okay,” America smiled, the hold on his pillow tightening. “It’s okay. There is nothing you or Arthur could have done, Francis. In the past, while Alfred and Francis as well as Alfred and Arthur have been very close and kind towards each other, it’s different when it is America and France and England. You know that, you told me that back during the Revolution.”

            “But if your leaders were abusing you we could have helped, done something-”

            “How do you know that? By the time I was able to see all of you again it was during the World Wars and the Cold War. You needed all the help you could get let alone helping anyone else,” he said, cutting the other off. “I know you have good intentions behind your words but what’s done is done. I’ve accepted that.”

            The toilet flushed.

            Matthew said nothing, having heard it all before. Francis only closed his eyes in sorrow. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do, if he could do anything for Alfred.

            “But, it’s not like I have forgotten it. Many people say the road to recovery is to forgive but don’t forget. I am letting go of what happened to me and I know the signs of it happening again, if it ever does. I won’t ever be able to forgive some of those people, but a lot of them I have. I have accepted what happened and I’m moving on,” Alfred explained, finally walking over to Francis to give him a hug. “Thank you, you’re already doing a lot right now, you know? Hearing me talk. Listening.”

            Francis nodded once again rubbing Alfred’s back, “You’re a smart boy Alfred, _je suis si fier ._ ”

            Canada smiled as America let out a noise of pure joy, his hold around France tightening because of the other man’s words. Francis let out a laugh, planting a kiss on Alfred’s cheek.

            “You are crushing your pillow between us,” Francis cried out, Matthew starting to laugh as well. Alfred pulled back, flopping back onto the floor. His pillow rested in Francis’ lap flattened down considerably.

            The bathroom door finally reopened, a pale faced Arthur walking back into the living room only to freeze when he saw Alfred. The two didn’t do anything at first. The tension, the unease, grew.

            _(One minute, three seconds.)_

            “You heard me,” Arthur finally spoke, looking even more stricken than before. He made a move to leave again but Alfred was faster. He left Francis behind grabbing Arthur’s hands with urgency.

            “Yes, and I forgive you. There is really nothing for me to forgive you for,” he paused at the other’s expression, at his hitch of breath. “You didn’t know and there really wasn’t a way for you to. It’s okay Arthur, I still love you like I always have. We’re still family, okay?”

            _(Twenty four seconds.)_

            “Yes,” he finally whispered. “Okay.”

            Alfred smiled giving one final closure hug for the night. Arthur remained stiff, his arms remaining half raised in the air.

_(Seven seconds.)_

            He finally hugged back, pressing his face against Alfred’s shoulder. His eyes opened when he felt a pair of hands rest on his back, ones that weren’t Alfred’s. Francis had joined them, a happy smile on his face.

            Matthew still hadn’t moved, choosing to instead sit on his chair, a fond look in his eyes.

            “Mattie, you need to join us,” Alfred whined out, a pout coming to his face. Francis and Arthur both agreed, holding one arm out towards the final member of their mismatched family.

_(Nineteen seconds.)_

            Canada finally relented, standing up and making his way towards the group. He joined in on the hug, Alfred finally smiling again. They remained that way for a long time, not worrying about anything else.

_(Twelve minutes, six seconds.)_

            When they broke apart, the previous mood in the room had lifted, Alfred practically bouncing back over to the couch to grab his pillow. He looked over at Matthew with a yawn.

            “I should probably go back to bed.”

            Alfred made his way towards the stairs before stopping. He turned around, his eyes wide and mouth open.

            “I have an idea!” he shouted out before running back over to Francis and Arthur, “Let’s sleep in my bed! It’s big enough and it’ll be like a sleep over!”

            The two with their hands held captive turned towards Matthew in question. Alfred pulled a puppy dog expression, rocking back and forth on his heels hoping to sway his answer.

            “I don’t know…” he wasn’t looking at Alfred’s eyes, knowing what was awaiting him.

            “Please Mattie? Pretty, pretty please with sugar on top? I’ll eat all of my vegetables at dinner tomorrow without complaining, even if it’s asparagus and I hate asparagus.”

            Arthur was trying not to smile. Francis was on his way to laughing at the situation.

_(Three minutes, fifty two seconds.)_

            “Okay, you win. We can all dog pile on your bed for the night,” Canada finally relented, America letting out a cheer not a second afterwards. He practically dragged the Europeans up stairs, leaving Canada behind to turn off the lights.

            Once the house was locked up and the downstairs lights were turned off, Matthew joined the other three upstairs. Alfred was sitting in the middle of his bed, seeming to be waiting for Matthew. Francis was already flopped over on top of the covers sideways, Arthur closing the blinds so light wouldn’t wake them up in the morning.

            Matthew took off his pants, letting them pool on the floor before trying to make Francis roll over so he could pull the covers back down. He was met with a grunt of complaint, Arthur poking Francis’ side a few times when he made no effort to move and make Matthew’s job easier.

            They placed America and Canada’s glasses on the side table. Francis took off his shirt while Arthur took off his socks. Alfred put his pillow back where it was.

            Soon they were all underneath the covers, Alfred in between Francis and Arthur while Matthew spooned Francis from behind. It was quiet, a soft type of quiet that filled one with warmth. The nightlight on the opposite side of the room gave the walls a soft glow.

            “Matt, you didn’t check the closet for monsters again,” Alfred whispered out. Francis shifted, wrapping an arm around Alfred’s torso.

            “There are three of us here, I am sure any monster that might be there would be too scared to attack you because of your strength, let alone four nations at once,” Arthur spoke up. His voice had taken on the calmness Matthew always seemed to have. Like when Alfred was only a colony, the Brit gently ran his fingers through Alfred’s hair to comfort him.

            “Exactly Alfred, you are safe. We’re here and there’s light,” Matthew added on, Francis humming in agreement.

            _(One minute exactly.)_

            “Thank you,” Alfred managed to whisper, voice choked with pure affection. He wiped his tears away with the back of his hand. He was content, warm, safe.

            _(Maybe not being a bird wasn’t so bad after all.)_

* * *

 

            Matthew W. [10:27 P.M.]: sorry, this is probably a bit late for your personal cell.

            Matthew W. [10:28 P.M.]: you asked me to keep you updated on Alfred and how today went, and it went very well.

            Matthew W. [10:30 P.M.]: both the English and French representatives, you’ve met them, were entirely accepting. they can come down to D.C. to talk with you more in depth eventually but

            Matthew W. [10:33 P.M.]: I need to go, Alfred will ask what was taking me so long and for now he shouldn’t need to think about work. we are all having a sleepover per Alfred’s request. have a good night sir and sorry for bothering you.

            B. Obama [10:58 P.M.]: You’re not bothering me at all. I am glad this all worked out. Tell Alfred he has some time off to spend with you three. Have a good night Canada, and thank you for looking out for my nation.

* * *

 

            Time went on as usual. Arthur and Francis stayed for five days learning more about Alfred and what they could do to make their homes more accommodating. Arthur added a thicker throw rug in the room Alfred usually stayed in alongside bowls of decorative stones by the fireplace in his sitting room. Francis added a shoe rack and a box of marbles to his Parisian flat.

            He would make lunches for Alfred when they had meetings, for all four of them so they could eat together in the quiet of the conference room. Arthur would bring the dessert. Alfred always loved his puddings and now he got to try different recipes that he hadn’t even heard of.

            They could see the signs of a shutdown or breakdown, helping Alfred out the best they could to ground him. They’d tell him the date, and what was going on, why they were all there in the first place, anything that came to mind. Alfred would listen and slowly relax. Like Matthew, they never were angry at him, only at what happened to him.

_(They might not understand completely. No one ever would really, not even himself, but they tried. They tried and were there for him. That’s all that truthfully mattered.)_

            Arthur still had his moments of doubt in himself. He already hurt Alfred enough and didn’t want to do so again. He didn’t know the first time, so how would he know now?

            Francis would overcompensate for things he never would have been able to stop and correct. There were no do over’s and while the man knew it, there were times where he wished it wasn’t so.

            They all learned and got better as time went on. They had each other. They had their safe warm spot in Alfred’s room where everything was quiet and soft glowing light lulled them to sleep.

_(Maybe Alfred needed to know that too. He might not know everything about himself, why he was this way in the first place. But he had his family. They were here for him.)_

_(He liked numbers. He always would. But he loved his family.)_

            Meetings were easier. The cities were easier. He had Matthew and Francis and Arthur. He had his schedule and medications. He had support. He had ways to cope. Progress was hard even on the best of days. On the worst, where the cold and dark crept in on his vision, there was always warmth to bring him back. Smiles and blankets and hot cocoa with movies and naps crammed onto the same couch.

_(Numbers were always right. His family wasn’t, but that was okay. He wasn’t either and everyone made mistakes sometimes.)_

            They would let him clean their homes if he was over on Tuesday. Francis taught Alfred how to play marbles, which resulted in hitting Arthur across the back of the head with one, Francis being hit by a pillow until he was calling for mercy. Arthur would read to Alfred to help him sleep after a nightmare, the soothing voice pulling him back to dreamland, mind devoid of the horrors he tried to forget.

            Matthew was still there, still soft and kind. Still safe. He wasn’t the only safe one anymore which made Alfred happy. His family was there for him and they loved him as much as he loved all of them.

_(Maybe even numbers did. Then again, perhaps it wasn’t the numbers themselves, but the people calculating them.)_

* * *

 

            Humans loved to say that time healed all wounds. Alfred once used to think that was incorrect.

            Physical wounds could heal with time; they always did if allowed to heal. If protected and given aid the pain went away and pretty soon you forgot about what was even there in the first place.

            Mental wounds on the other hand, weren’t like that. If left alone they would get worse and if treated, unless it was exactly what was needed, could be even more so. Should one do nothing or take the chance to have it fixed?

            If there was no one to turn to for help, then what? What was to be done if there was no way out in the first place? Keep your head down and hope for the best, or find a way to fight back and free yourself?

            Time proved him wrong. With time, he healed. With time, he got out. With time, with numbers, with values, and measureable means, he freed himself. It wasn’t easy, it wasn’t linear or exponential, and it wasn’t something that could be understood using what Alfred knew how to use best.

            Numbers were nice. Alfred liked numbers. They never lied and always were what they were. It wasn’t to say that everything else lied because that was wrong too. At one point in time he would have agreed, but now?

            He was not being lied to. When Matthew said he was smart, he knew he was. When Francis called him strong, he knew he was. When Arthur told him how mature he acted, he knew that was the truth.

            When all three of them, his family and friends and colleagues, smiled at him with all the care and love and adoration in the world, he knew.

_(Alfred had killed himself two thousand four hundred ninety five times over the course of more than 240 years. Not once had he come back as a bird. He came back as a nation, one that had love to return to, even if he didn’t realize it yet.)_

He knew now.

_(And unlike numbers, his value was unimaginable.)_

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, thank you for reading! Comments are really appreciated. This is the first fic I have published in a good three plus years so I would love some feedback.
> 
> Beta'd by hybridempress


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